The Curse of the Silmarils
by Aradiuth
Summary: After Dagor-nuin-Giliath, Maedhros went to parley with Morgoth, but was captured and held hostage. Then Morgoth went personally to treat with Maglor for the return of his brother. Full summary inside.


Full summary: "Maedhros the tall, the eldest son, persuaded his brothers to feign to treat with Morgoth, and to meet his emissaries at the place appointed; but the Noldor had as little thought of faith as he. Wherefore each embassy came with greater force than was agreed; but Morgoth sent the more…[Maedhros] was taken alive by the command of Morgoth, and brought to Angband."

In an earlier draft of the Silmarillion, Tolkien had written that Morgoth himself came then to Maglor to negotiate the terms upon which he would release Maedhros. This one-shot seeks to explore how that scene may have played out…

A note on names:  
Maglor = Macalaurë, Kanafinwë  
Maedhros = Maitimo, Nelyafinwë

* * *

Damned be their folly! Macalaurë slammed a hand flat against the table, leaning upon the surface heavily. Of course. Of course the parley had failed. They had been fools to think that they could out-trick Morgoth their enemy. They had been fools to think a bit of treachery would save them. How could one hope to best in treachery the original traitor himself? And now they paid for it. Maitimo paid for it.

"My lord Kanafinwë."

Macalaurë looked up, not turning to face the messenger. Lately, he had begun to see them as heralds of doom only. "What is it now?" He had scarcely had time to process the information the last one had brought him, that he was the leader of the Noldor now, for Nelyafinwë's company had been slaughtered at the arranged place of meeting. "What could have possibly happened since the meeting?"

"My lord," said the Noldo softly, "Morgoth himself approached under a white flag. It is reported he wishes to speak with you personally."

Freezing, the second son of Fëanor held his breath, an intent stare fixed on a spot on the far wall of the tent. The very wind outside seemed to hesitate to howl until he let out a sigh through his teeth. No, he was definitely not ready for this. Not yet. Not ever.

"My lord? Will you see him?"

Hardening his heart, Macalaurë straightened and turned to face the messenger, who watched him worriedly. His jaw was tight and his eyes as fire turned steel as he nodded once, tensely. "I will see him. Let it be known that none should bar his way."

When the messenger left, Macalaurë took the time to mentally prepare himself. He was in charge now. He could not afford to appear weak. Therefore he let ice close over his heart and with the calm of still water stashed a dagger in the folds of his robes, just in case, and went to pour himself a drink.

It was precisely in the midst of that activity that Morgoth found him. Though having shrunk his _fana_ for the purposes of entering the tent, the Vala was no less intimidating for it. Macalaurë dismissed the Noldor having shown him in and, not looking up, inquired coldly, "Would you care for wine, Lord of Angband?"

Upon not receiving a reply immediately, Macalaurë finished pouring his own wine and, lifting it to his lips, glanced up at his enemy and found that the Vala was appraising him intently. Macalaurë curiously returned the gesture, letting his gaze rake over Morgoth's form, though he immediately regretted it. With his long, dark hair, burning stare, and black armor, he looked every inch the faithless warlord he had proven himself to be.

"I would indeed, Kanafinwë."

The Noldo started at the words, having utterly forgotten that he had, in fact, posed a question and had been awaiting an answer. Lowering his own goblet and setting it on the table, he inclined his head and poured another. Lifting it with his right hand, he proffered it, unsmiling. "So. To what do I owe the necessity of this meeting?"

Morgoth stepped forward, towering over Macalaurë despite the Fëanorian's height, tall even among the Noldor. Macalaurë forced himself to remain still as his enemy slowly took the goblet from him and lifted up his own to hide the curl of his lips.

"I have your brother alive in Angband," responded the Vala with a slight, wry smile. "He is mostly unharmed, for now."

Macalaurë waited, but when no further information was forthcoming, he prompted somewhat tightly, "And? I assume you would be willing to return him, for something. Is that not why you have come?"

"It is," Morgoth agreed, regarding the grim Noldo before him searchingly. "My price is reasonable, I think."

"I am listening." Unable to bear the closeness any longer, Macalaurë took a deliberate step back, putting more distance between him and the dark lord. He reminded himself that there were guards waiting at his call, should the meeting go badly. "What are your terms?"

Morgoth's smile widened at the prince's retreat. "The Noldor are to forsake this vain and foolish war against me, and forsake also this land that is mine. You and your people must leave Beleriand and go back into the west, or else far from here to the south, and never to take up arms against me again. Of course, I keep the Silmarils, as a token of your good faith. Vow that it shall be so, and I will give you back your brother, Kanafinwë!"

How the heart of Macalaurë yearned to believe those words, to find truth in them! How desperately he wished he could believe, even for a single, sweet second, that it could be that easy, that he even had a choice! But tantalizing deception remained far from his grasp. His mind remained free, and fire was still fresh in his memory. They had sworn, and not lightly. He could not forsake the war against any who kept the Silmarils. Their Oath would not let him. Such was the curse of the Silmarils and darkly Macalaurë predicted that he had not seen the last of its effects.

Besides, Macalaurë realized bitterly, even if by some miracle he was released from the obligations of the Oath of Fëanor and his house, Morgoth would never release Maitimo. Why should he? No. Russandol the Tall was lost forever. It was time to cast aside all hope and embrace the bitter reality.

"No," he uttered lowly, the single, damning word more foul on his tongue than any bitters. "I cannot agree to your terms."

Morgoth straightened, and seemed to grow dark, to gather the shadows of the tent about him. "So Kanafinwë, heartless and cruel despite your reputation. Would you damn your own brother to eternal torment? Rest assured I will not kill him. No, that would be too easy. He will endure, and he will suffer the long years, and watch you all fall, one by one. Think of it, son of Fëanor! You could still save him. You could save your people. All you need do is agree to my terms, such simple terms."

"No!" the prince repeated, more clearly and more forcefully, and despair ripped through him, more painful than any blade might be. "I refuse to listen to you and reject your demands utterly! Begone, Morgoth! You will receive neither promises nor favors from me."

Then Morgoth was wroth and grew dark and terrible. But he left, and swiftly, promising darkly that Nelyafinwë would suffer harshly for his brother's decision, and left Macalaurë alone. Falling to his knees the Noldo let bitter tears fall, and wondered how much more death and loss the House of Fëanor would see ere the war was over.

The curse of the Silmarils would bring them all to their knees, he sensed, yet still they would be forced to fight on. The Everlasting Darkness awaited with open arms.


End file.
